A [Month] of Observations, April 2016: Part 8

So here I am posting after a few extra weeks away. I realize how much I miss blogging! I miss you!!

I recently got back from Los Angeles, where I stayed with a good friend and commuted to AWP, a massive writing conference, to meet other Writers in Communities program directors as well as thirteen thousand or so writers who share my love of writing in one way or another.

I probably interacted with about sixty of those thirteen thousand, but it was enough to put my introverted brain on sensory overload. So, after a reading, a signing, and a few amazing panels, I returned to hike at Sherman Oaks then hang out with my friend and try to debrief as we ate Cheerios and listened to her pet pig snore (they can really snore).

At the Black Fox Literary Magazine Table. Thanks, Black Fox!!

Ordering sweet potato fries with my new friend

Sara Fitzpatrick Comito and my long-time (mid/long-time) friend, Isie.

It was fabulous. I enjoyed LA a lot. As such, I came back with some new observations about life. So, alas, here's Part 8:

• Tarot card readers will not always tell you what you want to hear.
• Food is fantastic in LA.
• Reading can be more dramatic when you need to make a quick exit after.
• Uber works in a pinch.
• Writing when overwhelmed is not a good idea (journaling for personal use only is).
• Chicago has great taste in short stories (see: recent acceptances in Chicago Tribune and Chicago Quarterly Review).
• I am not (you are not) who I know (who you know), but it's good to know good people nonetheless.
• I need to revisit the memory palace - I'm horrible with names. And faces. Geesh.
• Walking is medicine.
• Comparisons are usually destructive. Then again, they also motivate. Use with care.
• Cheerios are really great with banana and a pinch of sugar.
• Starbucks employees are far nicer in LA than they are in San Antonio.
• Acting is a fabulous ambition. Odds smodds. Go for it!
• Writing: Same!
• If you tell someone they're not going to like a thing, there's a good chance they won't like the thing. Contrarians are rare, precious creatures.
• This list is getting too long.

Three new story links this go-round:

"Help Wanted in the Midwest: On the Bus Line" at Cosmonauts Ave. Basically my memoir in 500 words

"War Muse" at Cheap Pop - a dystopic presidential story

"Gather the Ingredients" at Chicago Tribune's Printers Row (ask me for a link)

Monthly prompt:

Use yourself as a character. Only reverse everything. If you're shy, make your character gregarious and assertive; if you're skinny, give your character more volume; if you're afraid of spiders, give your character a pet spider. Just write like that for 20 minutes. It'll be fun.

Seattle

I returned to San Antonio from my trip to AWP on Saturday and got right back to work.

I miss Seattle. It has a certain vibrancy. I had amazing food. My husband and I ate at Etta's Seafood where I told the waitress I wanted to lick the plate, but there were too many people there. I was not lying. I almost licked it anyway, but I resisted. I am proud of this. I met up with my undergrad professor and friend, Shannon Lakanen, at the Whisky Bar and drank the best ginger cider (I can't handle whisky) of my life. We visited the original Starbucks, the Public Market, the Space Needle, and we walked the city until our feet felt as though they were about to fall off. I read as part of the Festival of Language at Rock Bottom and the Hot Pillow at the Roosevelt, which I partially hosted but all credit goes to Joani Reese. I ate conveyor belt sushi and gourmet cupcakes. I met up with brilliant writers, including Robert Vaughan, Len Kuntz, Mia Avramut, Meg Tuite, Aaron Dietz, Bud Smith, Sara Lippmann, Bonnie ZoBell, and Karen Stefano, Bill Yarrow, Jane L. Carman, Sam Snoek-Brown, Cynthia Atkins, Shaindel Beers, Christine Fadden, and so, so many more. I lived. I enjoyed.

Meg Tuite

Bill Yarrow

Joani and Len

We ate this....

...not that

Me with the glorious Heather Fowler

I did not sleep. I did not drink too much. I did not miss my plane, and I did not spend all my time nervous or gushing or networking. I did not stress out, and I did not get sick, and I did not hide out or get bored. I did not have the chance. I enjoyed the time I spent at the conference, but more, I enjoyed Seattle.

As I return to reality, I will take this experience with me. These writers give me confidence that what we all do alone, every day, is not done alone at all.

Are Writers Full of Themselves?

Recently, I was asked if I thought writers were egotistical and self-indulgent by nature.  A student, who admitted to despising the very act of writing essays said that he felt writers are full of themselves, and he smartly asked if I agreed before suggesting he be dismissed of an essay assignment.  If I were teaching philosophy, I might have given him an A+ for the class, told him to go home.  Instead, let's just say that I said something incredibly concise, smart and profound in response, but I made him turn in the paper.  The fact is, his question has stayed on my mind and I wanted to address it here, in more depth.


According to Freud, the Ego is the rational part of the brain, the bridge between reality’s limitations and the Id, which contains a person’s passions and instinctual drives. The way the word ego is commonly used, it implies a person is full of self-rationalization or more simply put, is full of ones self. Many times writers and other artists are accused of being egotistical, which to me, makes sense. I mean, if a person that spends hours recording thoughts that he or she deems worthy of an audience, there has to be some ego there—otherwise how could that person rationally believe those thoughts are important enough to share?

I like to think that a good writer puts the ego aside when writing a draft, and simply attempts to record passions, deep-seated beliefs and desires, and that revision is the ego’s place to examine and rationalize such thoughts. Or, if we’re talking non-fiction, a more philosophical take on writing, the writer will actually question his or her motivations and attempt to step outside or at least briefly try to imagine a view that is counter to what is instinctual.

Personally, I am drawn to memoir and personal essays, as a reader, for this very reason—the form insists upon self-examination and reflection that extends beyond mere navel-gazing. When it comes to fiction, the topic is more nuanced, but I think even the best novels and short stories have enough shaded meaning that they can be discussed and argued rather than taken literally as social commentary or a veiled personal story.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that ego might drive us to the very act of writing, but the willingness of a writer to put said ego aside, to step outside of it for even a moment, is what separates (apart from the obvious: craft, word choice, etc…) a strong story from the more common preachy writing that often finds a predictable future: from computer screen or notebook to slush pile and eventually, the trash can or recycle bin.

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